


Hold Me Close, It's Just One Dance

by under_a_linden_tree



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: 19th Century, Austria, Aziraphale Loves Crowley (Good Omens), Ballroom Dancing, Dancing, F/M, Female-Presenting Aziraphale (Good Omens), Fluff, Historical, Male-Presenting Crowley (Good Omens), No Angst, Other, Waltzing, but doesn't quite realise it yet, pre 1862 fall out
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-30
Updated: 2020-05-30
Packaged: 2021-03-03 02:08:09
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,730
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24447091
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/under_a_linden_tree/pseuds/under_a_linden_tree
Summary: It's 1836 and Aziraphale is drawn to a Viennese ballroom. What she doesn't expect is to find Crowley there too, and neither could she have predicted that Crowley wants to change the fact that angels don't dance.In which Crowley teaches Aziraphale how to waltz (badly).
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 15
Kudos: 38





	Hold Me Close, It's Just One Dance

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Thyra279](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Thyra279/gifts).



> Sometimes, a thought just gets away with me. A huge thank you to Phoenix_Of_Athena for beta-reading.
> 
> This one goes to you, Thyra, my fellow Romantic era buddy. I hope you enjoy it!

Soft violin and flute notes fill the ballroom and Aziraphale taps her foot in time with the rhythm, _one-two-three, one-two-three_. It was an excellent decision to come here tonight to enjoy the revelries of the well-to-do Viennese townsmen and their ladies.

A wealthy inn-owner had established a public ballroom only two years ago, here in the small suburb just outside Vienna’s walls, and it had immediately generated interest. On the opening night Johann Strauss himself had conducted the orchestra, and news spread like wildfire, word of mouth ensuring a good reputation for the establishment. Recently, these rooms had become some of the first in town to be equipped with gas lights, and the raving reviews had only increased in their ardour. Aziraphale couldn’t help it, she simply _had_ to see for herself.

She is quite content with the evening so far. The rooms are high and lofty, with painted ceilings borne by slim, Corinthian columns that remind her of days long gone, ambling across Roman forums. Dotted around the dance floor are small lamps, seemingly dancing themselves in the semi-darkness of the main hall. Plush chaise-longues line the walls and she had already deemed them comfortable hours ago. Now she watches as couples, young and old, spin across the dance floor while she herself enjoys a glass of sweet red wine. The orchestra grows louder on the final notes of yet another of Strauss’s jaunty waltzes and Aziraphale applauds, quite taken with the music and the bubbly atmosphere it creates.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” the conductor announces, putting his baton aside, “we will be back after a short break to resume your entertainment. In the meantime, please enjoy some refreshments.”

He takes a perfect bow while the musicians put down their instruments and rise, straightening their coats and cravats as they do so. The couples on the dance floor award them with another round of applause before they slowly start to disperse. Dresses rustle as ladies link their arms with their partners and suits merge into a sea of black when other gentlemen return to their friends after a less successful try at waltzing. Both the wealthy and the modest workers mix, here among the gas lights, exchanging niceties and pleasant remarks about the orchestra. Then the crowd parts, and all of a sudden Aziraphale’s eyes settle on a familiar figure.

Coincidence must have considered her lucky today, she thinks, because Crowley turns his head and recognition immediately passes across his face. He acknowledges her with a sharp nod and makes a quick excuse from the gentlemen he has been talking to before crossing the dance floor towards Aziraphale. The fashion of the era suits him; slim cut jackets with high collars, tight brocade waistcoats and high waisted trousers, and of course the fashionable dark cravat that lays perfectly smooth around the long lines of Crowley’s neck all come together to cut a striking figure.

“Angel! What brings you here?” Crowley asks when he is close enough.

He drops onto the chaise-longue next to Aziraphale and stretches his spindly legs out onto the floor, immediately causing a passing lady’s skirts to get entangled with the tip of his shoe. The lady stumbles and sends an accusatory look Crowley’s way, but the demon only smirks at Aziraphale; the angel quickly offers the other lady an apologetic smile until she passes them, huffing her misery at her partner.

“Really Crowley,” Aziraphale chides as soon as they are out of earshot. “Was that strictly necessary?”

“I’m a demon, that’s what I do,” Crowley says, and as if to drive his point home, he slides further down the sofa, taking up even more space on the floor.

“Excuse me for saying so, dear, but frankly I don’t think that tripping people is part of some greater evil plan. It sounds more like a minor nuisance to me.”

“‘S because you don’t know the job.”

“Ah, of course, silly me. I’ve only been doing it for eight hundred years.”

They fall into a short silence and a waiter in dainty livery passes, offering them refreshments they gladly accept. Aziraphale watches as the musicians swarm back into the hall, taking their places one by one. A general motion starts to spread across the room and gentlemen offer their arms to ladies in their frilly dresses. Wine glasses are set aside hurriedly and the conductor resumes his place, flipping through his music sheets with a furrowed brow.

“Didn’t think I would run into you here,” Crowley says as the orchestra begins to play again. “Isn’t this a bit below your illustrious standards?”

Aziraphale clicks his tongue, a more than half-hearted admonishment. “Well, I wouldn’t risk getting beheaded for it–” 

“But the _crepes_ were worth it?” Crowley huffs. It sounds like a laugh’s stuck in his throat.

“– but I did want to see for myself what the fuss was about. And before you ask, I think it’s a lovely place. The music is quite pleasing, too.”

It really is. They are playing a quick polka now and Aziraphale watches as the couples gallop up and down the dance floor, holding on to each other as they spin and parting as the ladies form a line to pass under the gentlemen’s raised, joined hands.

“Have you danced, then? Or are you just here to drink?” Crowley asks and drains his own glass.

“Oh - oh no, I’m afraid I haven’t.”

“Do you want to try it?”

Crowley puts his glass down and looks at her. His expression is nearly unreadable with the glasses obscuring his eyes. For a moment, Aziraphale’s heart beats faster, stupid human thing, and she tries to silence it as quickly as possible. Why, there’s nothing to be upset about. She doesn’t understand the things her corporation will invariably do even at the slightest semblance of affection.

The reply still comes so quickly it’s almost mangled. “Angels don’t dance.”

“You always say that. Have you _ever_ tried, though?” Now Crowley is giving her a mischievous look over the top of his glasses. “Or are you scared you might enjoy it?”

And in a way, Aziraphale is. She can’t quite grasp _what_ she is scared of, but the prospect of losing her inhibitions, of spinning around the room and letting go, it’s daunting to her. It’s not the done thing and certainly not with a demon – especially not when said demon’s mere question makes her feel like she wants to reach out and touch him, dance the night away no matter what. It’s yet another way to step out of line, the kind of thing that would perhaps not get her punished but certainly let other angels frown upon her.

“I really don’t think – I – it’s not a good idea, Crowley.”

“Why not? Come on, angel, just one dance.”

“It’s too fast,” Aziraphale says. Why does she feel this strange sadness rejecting him? “I don’t think I can keep up with that.”

The music shifts, and the quick notes of the polka shift into the opening tacts of a mellow waltz. Its tunes are soft and they flow more gently, smooth violins and tender flutes. It’s beautiful. Aziraphale barely notices that Crowley has risen until he offers her his arm in a half-bow. He is smiling ever so slightly, almost unnoticeable if it weren’t for the way that it causes a precarious happiness to take her heart by storm.

“And if we take it slow?” he asks, softly.

Aziraphale nods. “All right.”

There can be no harm in this, can there? She tries to tell herself that when she takes Crowley’s arm and allows him to guide her across the dance floor to a secluded spot by the orchestra. For a moment, she can almost imagine a life in which they aren’t an angel and a demon, just dancers revelling in the moment like there is no tomorrow.

“Should be enough space here,” Crowley says as other couples pass them by. He clears his throat and Aziraphale suspects that they are both unsure of how to go about this. “Right. Posture.”

He slips his arm free from Aziraphale’s hold and swiftly moves to face her, shifting into place slightly to her right. He straightens his shoulders and Aziraphale mirrors his posture.

“Put your left hand on my arm,” he instructs.

Aziraphale does as he asked. She gently rests her hand in the middle of Crowley’s arm, his suit crisp under her gloved fingertips, but something doesn’t feel quite right. After a moment’s hesitation, Crowley reaches up and catches her arm, momentarily grazing over the small exposed strip of skin between the gloves and her puffed sleeves. It almost feels like he’d burned her but Aziraphale doesn’t pull back. Instead she allows him to move her hand upwards until it nearly sits at his shoulder, and somehow things fall into place when Crowley rests his on her shoulder blade. It feels right, to be held like this, but before she can appreciate it, Crowley reaches out and gingerly takes her other hand into his left, raising them like they were spreading a wing together. The touch between gloved hands is light and tentative, a guiding line more than a hold, and yet it plucks at Aziraphale’s heartstrings until they sing as brightly as the gentle violins. It merely took them a handful of seconds to take their posture, but to Aziraphale it feels like a decade could have passed between the moment their contact broke and Crowley taking her hand.

“Like that,” Crowley says, less than eloquently, and his voice seems somewhat restrained.

It’s only then that Aziraphale notices how close they are, the hemline of her skirt hovering over the tips of Crowley’s shoes. Where there’s usually at least an arm’s length of distance between them, now a hand would barely fit.

“Take a step to the left, just with the left foot, and swing. Then it’s back the other way,” Crowley instructs, his brows drawn together, obviously concentrating.

“That’s not very descriptive.”

“Oh, shut up. You’ll get it, it’s not that hard.”

Crowley takes the first step, his right foot moving in a single step, and he sways until his left closes in next to his right, before he mirrors the movement in the other direction. It looks so simple but Aziraphale stumbles on the sway back, having a hard time with the changing direction. Still, she follows when Crowley starts the steps again. _Left foot, sway, close. Right foot, sway, close_. The routine becomes easier with repetition and after a while, their movements fall into place, gently swinging. It does not match up with the music but neither of them notices the cross looks the other couples reward them with.

Suddenly, Crowley lightly presses his palm against her back and turns them, just a little, on the step to the right. Aziraphale follows him as he moves counter clockwise, stunned that she didn’t stumble, hasn’t lost her footing. It continues like that, little turns as they sway. They don’t always match up, the distance between them growing bigger and falling away again with a gentle pull. Once, her hem catches on another dancer’s foot. It pushes her out of their rhythm, but Crowley simply starts again, awkwardly nudging Aziraphale until their steps line up.

They sway slowly, slowly around the room, misaligned with the rhythm of the piece, but they don’t notice. They’re complimenting each other and that’s enough. She can feel the warmth between their bodies and that lets a feeling of comfort settle over her.

“Right,” Crowley says after a few minutes, when the music grows brighter with the light-hearted ring of the winds. “Can you take a step back instead of to the side?”

“I – I’m not sure,” Aziraphale mumbles.

The initial confusion returns to overwhelm her once more as she struggles to picture the figure in her mind and tries to get her feet to move at just the right time. But then she feels the momentum of Crowley’s movement towards her and the press of his hand on her back and she takes a step back, almost instinctively. Crowley’s shoe slides almost between the tips of her slippers and she loses her footing for a moment, but the hand on her back keeps her steady. They try again, a step back and a spin, and Aziraphale’s feet naturally slide into place.

She takes another step back but Crowley harshly holds her in place, resulting in a stumble that lets her break out of his hold for a moment before his hand resettles just beneath her shoulder blade.

“You’ve got to move forward,” he says as though it were the most obvious thing in the world.

Once again, they pick up at a step back, a turn and a slide but this time, Aziraphale moves forward. It’s juddery and lacks refinement, but they sway together, turning and turning until the steps become more smooth. While the dancers surrounding them might think lowly of their rhythm, their too tense posture and the lack of momentum employed, none of that matters to them[1].

Aziraphale likes this closed position. She doesn’t have to look at Crowley, see whatever his face could tell her in an unguarded moment. Instead, the room continues to spin as she watches, dresses and coattails waving to and fro as the dancers move. The gas lamps gleam, their faint light casting shadows across the gilded frames of mirrors and the stucco work below the ceiling. In the couple’s swaying motion, they almost seem to float, up and down, up and down, _one-two-three_. It’s almost fairytale-esque, like the flames have a dance of their own. Aziraphale is enraptured.

As they continue their dance, Crowley begins to twirl the two of them more. It’s terribly clumsy and he misses most of the beats he should initiate the twirls on, and yet it puts a bright smile on Aziraphale’s face. Even if her feet touch the floor with too little bounce to be considered anywhere near artful, it still feels a little like flying, like there’s just the two of them in their own little bubble. She wants to rest her head on Crowley’s shoulder, lean against his head.

And then it’s over. The music turns into a final crescendo of quick, loud notes and Crowley pulls them to a stop, raising his left arm to twirl her underneath it. The turn comes as a surprise and Aziraphale slips, her shoulder bumping into Crowley’s chest. It hurts a little, but Aziraphale doesn’t want to miracle it away, not if it means that she has to separate herself from Crowley. A moment passes during which neither of them moves and Aziraphale can feel Crowley’s breath graze against the short, downy hair at her temples. Just a few seconds later, however, Crowley steps back. He smirks as he bows over her hand.

“Not that bad once you get used to it, eh?”

“No, not at all,” Aziraphale says but before she can thank him or, Heaven help her, ask for another dance, Crowley is already disappearing through the crowd.

Aziraphale suddenly regrets that she agreed to one dance and one dance only. It’s a taste far too tempting and she _knows_ that it wouldn’t be wise to continue but God, is it difficult to tell that to her traitorous heart, still beating quickly with the exhaustion and the rush of a long waltz. She wants to dance with Crowley, be held close and spun like there’s no tomorrow, until she ends up in his arms again by accident. Despite her better judgement she follows him.

The catch is, there’s always a tomorrow. When their ways have parted, they will once again be what they always were: An angel and a demon on opposite sides, more than an arm’s length apart. But for tonight, Aziraphale will try to take as much as they can get, be it another dance or just a simple smile over another glass of wine.

* * *

[1] They’ll never learn the perfect swinging step, but some day in the future, in a cottage by the seaside, Aziraphale will take the lead, showing Crowley how to keep in line with the tact. Their postures will change, too, and they would be criticised for being too relaxed, with their arms wrapped too closely around each other, if anyone could see except for the two of them.

**Author's Note:**

> The waltz I imagined them dancing to is Johann Strauss I's "Es ist nur ein Wien!" (op. 22)  
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vv8WtxPAu40
> 
> The ballroom that is mentioned is the Sträußelsäle in Vienna's Josefstadt quarter. I imagine Aziraphale first heard about the ballroom when visiting the theatre next to it.


End file.
